Disappearing Act
by Kyrri
Summary: Things are getting too hot in the kitchen for the Cajun's taste, so what does he do? (Slash Warning, M/M pairing)


Disappearing Act  
  
by Kyrri  
  
~  
  
Author's e-mail: kyrrissean@hotmail.com  
  
Sequel/Series: None (Thank God)  
  
Pairing: Remy/Warren  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Disclaimer: Don't be daft! Of course they're mine! I own them all - then again I'm also the proud owner of the Statue of Liberty and the Eiffel Tower! Come on! (Marvel, all Marvel's. *mutters*)  
  
Summary: Things are getting too hot in the kitchen for the Cajun's taste, so what does he do?  
  
Archive: If you could just drop me a note to tell me where.  
  
Warnings: Um. slash, fear of commitment and an AU version of Antarctica.  
  
A/N: There were some major tense and spelling mistakes and I simply couldn't live with myself if I kept them like that, thus the repost.  
  
Feedback: Pretty please, with a cherry on top!  
  
~  
  
Silent, agile fingers manipulate the catch of the window before a dark, lean figure slips out into the night, shutting the window behind him just as silently as it has been opened - not daring to glance back into the room he has just vacated, not willing to let himself think about what he is doing, what he stands to loose if he leaves like this - without a word or a sound in the middle of the night.  
  
"Goodbye, mon amour," he whispers to the person sleeping peacefully in what he has come to think of as their bed, before starting to make his way across the rooftops, leaping from one to another, landing on silent feet as he lowers himself into an alleyway a few blocks away.  
  
He digs in the pockets of his characteristic trench coat for a while before producing a crumpled packet of cigarettes. With the ease of long practise he extracts one of the cigarettes and lights it with the tip of a finger, before replacing the rest of the packet in one of his trench's many pockets.  
  
Red on black eyes stare into the darkness as he takes a drag from the cigarette, before contemplating his surroundings. He hasn't really decided where he is going yet, only that he needs to get away, before things go to far. Before he loses his heart again.  
  
The road beckons him to return to her - run, it is the only way to ensure that you don't get attached. Not getting attached is the only way to prevent getting hurt. And Remy LeBeau has been hurt, over and over again by those he loved with little or no apology.  
  
A pair of red-lensed sunglasses makes their way from his pocket to cover his eyes as he steps out of the alley and onto the sidewalk, the streetlights casting flickering pools of golden light in the darkness.  
  
He avoids the light, preferring to move in the shadows as he makes his way towards a nearby bar. There he can find a bike to hotwire and be a long way down the coast before his lover even notices that he is gone. The very thought stings him and he nearly loses his resolve, stopping in his tracks and almost turning back towards the pent-house apartment he has called home for the last six weeks.  
  
He shakes off the feeling and continues down the road. He is leaving and nothing will stop him - not even the broiling feeling of guilt in the pit of his stomach.  
  
He inhales smoke and releases it after a few seconds of feeling it burn down the inside of his throat. Something isn't right. The hairs at the back of his neck bristle as he turns round, trying to pinpoint the source of the sudden blaze of anger he feels, almost mistaking it for his own . . . but he has nothing to be angry at.  
  
To the contrary - a moment before his own thoughts had been clouded in a deep dark depression, because of what he is doing to save himself from further heartache. It's only a mater of time before his lover tires of him, anyway.  
  
The anger blazes a path of fire across his mind again and he spins round, his trench flying out behind him before it settles against the back of his knees. A gentle breeze plays with his hair and tosses a stray piece of newspaper about.  
  
Remy's reflexes kick in as he closes his gloved hand over the paper, the anger still lingering at the back of his mind, but now tinged with a hint of sadness. He smoothes the crumpled page and stares into the face of a young girl.  
  
Missing: Angelica O'Brian. The girl is smiling up at him, her eyes covered by black-rimmed glasses and a glimmer of happiness in them - eyes which are vertically slitted, like a cat's. A mutant. He reads further - beloved daughter.  
  
His mind fastens onto that one word: 'beloved'. If only he had someone that cared enough to look for him when he disappeared as a child. But missing mutants aren't really considered high priority by the police, and his eyes - like the girl staring up at him from the black and white picture - betray what he is all too clearly.  
  
Who would want a child like him? The girl is very lucky to have someone who cares enough to look.  
  
Rouge didn't look for him, she didn't come back for him. Even if she and the X-Men all knew exactly where they left him. They didn't care, they deserted him. He feels a great sadness descend on him at the thought and he isn't even sure if all of the feelings are his own.  
  
He tends to collect feelings, jealously hoarding anything that resembles happiness or love, but, unfortunately, his empathy doesn't single out only the good feelings - he's stuck with the entire range of human emotion, slowly driving him out of his skull. His shields are his only shelter against an insane world where he walks the thin line between love and hate.  
  
The piece of paper falls from his hand and he gets one last look at the little girl's smiling face before the wind picks her up again and whisks her away to some unknown destination.  
  
He sticks his hands in the deep pockets of his trench, pulling it closer to him before resuming his course towards the bar, lost in the melancholy of his own and other's thoughts.  
  
A spark of something else brushing against his mind pulls his thoughts away from the cold darkness that lay in depression. He glances up and to the side, smiling at the couple who are kissing against the wall, letting their passion warm his mind and his heart.  
  
Someone did care about him, after all. Someone did come back for him in his time of need.  
  
The bar door creaks open before him as he pushes his way inside, having decided that it would be easier to decide where to go over a drink. The barkeep glances at him suspiciously before handing over the bottle of bourbon. Remy pays the man before snatching the bottle and a glass and heading towards own of the tables, finally settling for one where he can observe anyone who comes through the door without being observed himself.  
  
The fiery liquid burns its way down his throat as he swallows, before letting his eyes drift inward again, studying a white plain which has been engraved upon his heart. The sparkling ice-plain dazzles even his mind's eye as he remembers the pain of staring at that endlessly white landscape - the light searing his eyes even through the protective covering of his sunglasses.  
  
He drinks more of the bourbon, desperately trying to conceal the fact that he is shivering. Those endless white plains are starting to seem all the more real, the bar seeming to fade into the background. Its occupants and their mostly alcohol-induced happiness are not enough to keep him in the present.  
  
The cold is seated deeply within his very bones and life simply doesn't seem worth the hassle as he charges a card in a vain attempt to generate a little heat, only serving to tap himself of the little energy he has left.  
  
And that's when Remy spots him. The last person on Earth he thought would care enough to come back for him. The last person in heaven as well. an ange, wings close-furled, covering him like a shield against the cold walking slowly across the ice-plain towards him, darkly silhouetted against the angry white glare of the frozen desert.  
  
He stares at the apparition with unveiled disbelief, utterly convinced that his mind has decided to play some exceedingly cruel trick on him. The image is simply too perfect - an ange come to look for le diable blanc? Never.  
  
But there he is, the wind whipping at those long white feathers as his wings pull themselves even closer to his body, his voice carrying in the white darkness of the Antarctic as he spots his quarry and comes running towards him.  
  
"Gambit!" he feels the whispers of warm hands upon his flesh as the memory of himself is pulled close, the warmth of a blanket being wrapped around him, those soft wings shifting to cover him, to pull him close, enfolding him in their warm embrace as his frozen digits try to close around one single perfectly snow-white feather.  
  
He closes his eyes as he feels the smooth surface beneath his fingertips, sighing softly and surrendering. Sleep could come so easily then in the arms of the ange. And as he slipped into slumber's warm embrace, he heard his ange speak again. "Shh, Remy, everything's going to be all right. I've got you now."  
  
The next time he wakes it is in a warm bed, blankets pulled up under his chin. A sense of normality is there that makes him doubt the white desert to be anything but a nightmare. The only problem with this assumption happens to be that the bed isn't his own and he isn't in the mansion, but Remy has often woken up away from the mansion in a strange bed. Just never this late; he usually prefers sneaking out in the early morning hours.  
  
So it is with a much lighter heart that Remy forces away the pain of betrayal - labelling it no more than a bad dream. That is until *he* enters the room. Warren stands in the doorway, carrying a tray of something that's smell alone makes Remy exceedingly aware of the fact that he is starving.  
  
"Good to see you're awake," Warren says as he steps into the room, causing Remy to lift himself onto his elbows so that he can study the man. "Ange?" The Cajun asks in surprise. "What ya doin' 'ere?"  
  
"That's a wonderful way to greet the man who saved your life! Besides, this is my home, where else should I be?" he asks, lifting his shoulders in a gentle shrug that causes his feathers to rustle.  
  
Remy's entire world comes crashing down as he falls back against the pillow - so much for pretending none of it was true. He's just lost another family. Immediately suspicion fills his mind. He and Warren haven't exactly been good friends. "Why ya helpin' Remy?" he shoots at the man, turning his head on the pillow to better look at him. "We ain't exactly on the best terms, homme."  
  
Another delicate shrug of Warren's shoulders, before he moves closer, placing the tray on the nightstand beside the bed, before perching on the bed next to him and grinning. "Just think of me as your Guardian Angel, Remy."  
  
"Mon Guardian Ange," Remy mutters softly to himself, before pouring himself another glass - the alcohol isn't having any effect on him, except to help him on his way down memory lane. Warren took up the job with nothing short of angelic fervour, even if Remy denied needing a protector with equal zeal.  
  
"Remy, he don' need ya help, homme." The Cajun states, one of the knobs of the antique nightstand's drawer glowing with a purplish hue in his hand. "He can take care o' 'imself. Have been for a long time."  
  
"Remy, I know that. I'm not trying to patronize you. I only want to help!" Warren extends his hand towards the thief slowly, unafraid of the devastation the Cajun's powers can cause. "Truly, no catch. I promise. Let me help, Remy. please."  
  
A few seconds pass before the glow of the kinetic charge fades and a slender hand takes Warren's outstretched palm. "Qui." A small show of trust, his first true fall. From there things simply go downhill.  
  
"For god's sake, Remy, I love you. Why can't you get that through your thick skull? I don't want anything in return, Rems. I love you. That is the extent of this conspiracy you believe me to be part of."  
  
Red on black eyes stare back at him, widening in disbelief. "Ya love me?" The Cajun shakes his head slowly from side to side, panic flaring in his mind, making his eyes glow a fierce red. "No, Warren, ya can' love me."  
  
"Why not, Remy? You're a thief, why do find it so hard to believe that you could have stolen my heart?" Warren sounds exasperated, almost like he has had this conversation before or has known that it was coming, and his emotions echo his irritation and frustration.  
  
Remy bites his bottom lip, turning his face away from the other man, before whispering. "But I wasn' trying, Ange. Been keepin' everythin' inside, making sure the charm, she non effect ya. Ya can' love me for me, Warren. No one loves le Diable Blanc, 'e just got the charm to make 'em think they do."  
  
Warren sighs. "You said it yourself, Remy. You've been keeping your charm on a short leash." At that the Cajun looks up, nodding slightly. "This isn't a mistake, Remy." Warren smiles softly as he continues. "I love you, not you charm, LeBeau. Face it, you're stuck with me."  
  
Remy opens his mouth to protest, but Warren silences him with a kiss and when they break apart again the Archangel places a single finger against the thief's bruised lips. "Don't, Remy, you talk to much. Let me show you that I mean what I've said."  
  
And he would, every day for the next six weeks. Remy glances up from his drink, watching as the couple he saw on the street earlier steps into the bar. He smiles at them as their emotions pour over him - their happiness, their love - and suddenly leaving doesn't seem such a great idea anymore.  
  
***********  
  
His key turns softly in the lock, unlocking the door and allowing him the bit of space he needs to slip inside, before he closes the door again behind him. He slips into the bedroom on silent feet and stares at the figure of his lover. Warren's wings are furled close to his body, soft white feathers neatly spread over his side and the covers like an extra blanket.  
  
The thief moves towards the bed, one hand moving to caress those enchanting wings, before moving towards the other side.  
  
Remy sighs as he slips out of his trench coat, pulling of his boots, jean and shirt before slipping back under the covers and sliding into the cold area he had vacated earlier, his back pressing once more against his lover's chest as he closes his eyes and prepares for sleep.  
  
He nearly yelps in surprise as an arm is slipped around his waist and he's pulled close. He feels his lover chuckling against the hair covering the back of his neck as long fingers splay across his stomach. He settles back against the warmth of Warren's body, his heartbeat slowing back to a normal pace.  
  
"How far did you get this time?" Warren breathes into his auburn hair. Remy lets out a slow breath, before answering softly. "Six blocks." Warren nods and kisses one sharply defined shoulder blade.  
  
"Tomorrow, you're going to lift me some handcuffs from one of our friends in the NYPD, then we'll see how far you get." At that Remy turns in Warren's arms so that he faces his lover. He's grinning like a maniac, his red eyes shining in the dark as his fingers seek out the soft contours of his lover's wings, tracing over them.  
  
"That sounds like fun, cher. You tie Remy up an never let 'im go." Warren's smile matches his in the darkness as he moves his wings beneath the silky pressure of the thief's touch.  
  
"Come now, Remy, anyone who let you go must have been insane. You're not leaving my sight ever again." One of Warren's hands comes up to gently trace over the curve of Remy's jaw. "I'm your Guardian Angel, after all." he says with a wink.  
  
Remy smiles at that, a soft true smile. Maybe staying wouldn't be so bad, but even though he loves Warren, he still feels he has no right to. Le Diable Blanc does not deserve to be loved. But even the Devil's own cannot deny or refuse the love of an Ange.  
  
~ © Kyrri 2003 


End file.
